And the fool who let it happen
by Small Bombs
Summary: Trauma needs time to heal, and her firm hand, too.


It is a memory deeply stored into his heart, in an object of unknown shape and size. Sometimes, a lost resident will stumble across it, fleeing soon after, frightened just like their owner. They know they've triggered something painful—the kind of pain he can't stand, that will send him over the edge.

He broke his promise, he broke his promise.

He trusted him, and was betrayed.

It hurts, it hurts.

And it's not the kind of pain that makes you feel alive, no, but the kind that makes you wish you were dead.

He searches the halls, dark even though it's midday. His senses are dulled, he can't see, he can't hear, he tries to scream to the top of his lungs.

Mao, Mao, he calls.

It's his father's voice, but it can't be—He's already dead.

He's dead, and it's his fault.

That's right—Even if he finds the Super Hero, even if he kills him, it will be _his _fault.

He screams again, the realization stings, then pierces, then breaks his chest wide open, and his father calls his name again.

Mao, Mao.

"I'm sorry—!"

Mao, Mao.

"I should be the one…!"

Mao!

He hasn't opened his eyes and he doesn't need to. Hands tie him to the real world and he's glad—At least until he recovers his senses and realizes his back and neck are drenched in sweat and he feels cold, slimy, _disgusting_. He finally opens his eyes and everything is blurry, not only because he's missing his glasses but because there are still tears flooding them. He tries to focus and fails, and all he can see is pink and black.

"Mao, are you okay?"

Stupid goddamn question, he thinks; he's clearly_ not_.

"You were screaming…. You… You were going berserk again, so I…"

Her hands are on his cheeks and he hates how comfortable they feel, how they stretch his skin and slide, moist with tears and snot. He wants to speak—No, he doesn't want to, but he _has_ to, so he opens his mouth and lets out a croak.

Ugh.

Whatever.

Too exhausted to keep trying, he simply looks down, shrugs. His shoulders slump.

Beryl uses a small, sweet smelling handkerchief to clean his face. Sometimes she sleeps over at his castle; in his own room, even. It's gigantic, she explains, and it's not like you have a guest room. She goes to bed at 9 o'clock like the good girl she is, beckons him to do the same and huffs when he shrugs her off.

He's losing himself in those trivial thoughts and details when she presses his face against her chest, comforting him, reminding him that it's not alright to bury things anymore and he _hates_ it.

A repressed sob comes out and then the gates are open and he sniffs and cries into his own pajamas, and it smells clean like her.

She pats his head, he hears her swallow. She must be holding back, trying not to take a jab at him and he almost wants her to, so they can bicker and he can pretend this never happened, another memory buried, never to be found.

Mao's eyes hurt when he finally calms down. He wonders if one can run out of tears, and he wonders if you can literally cry your eyes out, but sensing his thoughts are wandering away again, Beryl finally lets go of his head and forces him to look at her in the eye.

"You know I can't see a thing, right?" He regrets speaking up—His voice sounds _awful_.

"Good. Then you can't see how terrible you look."

He clicks his tongue and she snickers. At the end of the day she's still his rival—Laughing at him comes naturally to her.

"Mao, before waking up… you said something." His heart drops; for a moment, he had hoped him crying on her chest for 15 minutes would be enough, that he could move on. Forget. "You said 'I should be the one'."

"It's not any of your business."

"It _is _my business."

"How?"

"_You_ are my business, idiot."

He gapes; it never stops amazing him how easily she can blurt out embarrassing things like that.

"What were you going to say?"

"How the hell should I know?" He lies. "It was a stupid nightmare, it probably made no sense—!"

"Don't pretend you don't remember. You were dreaming about your dad, weren't you?"

"…"

"You apologized so many times, it could only be about him."

He wants to run away.

She's not going to let him.

"What were you going to say, Mao?"

"That…. That I should be the one to die instead." He hopes it's like ripping off a band-aid, but it's not, and his voice still trembles when he says it. "I should've died, not my dad."

"M-Mao."

"He was kind and gentle; the old fool was the worst kind of demon yet the most magnificent Overlord—And… I'm… nothing more than a joke compared to him."

Beryl is silent. She's angry, he can tell, she wants to beat him up. He doesn't get both excited and annoyed by the idea as he usually would, he only feels empty.

Dead.

"Listen, and listen well, because if you don't I'll make you understand by force. Mao, you are…" She starts. "You are a weirdo. You are dishonest, moody, fickle, childish, petulant and the stupidest person I know. You are a bunch of horrible things, that's true. But you are also loving, bighearted, naïve to a fault, funny and generous. And kind and gentle. Just like him." She finishes, grinning when he frowns at her words. "Mao, you are those things. Your dad knew that, and he loved you enough to sacrifice his life for yours."

"I… just…"

"If you had died instead, would you have wanted him to spend his life wishing to take your place instead of living it?"

"… No."

"That's right. Because you love him, just like he loved you."

"Don't say those gross things, you're making me puke."

"Mao, there's really no need for you to try so hard."

There's a pause, very needed for him to gather his thoughts.

"I… It was my fault..."

"This again? You know he doesn't blame you."

"But _I_ blame _me_! If I hadn't been such a fool… If I hadn't made the mistake to trust that man—!"

"Trusting is never a mistake, Mao, stop thinking it is. Even the most perfect honor student can be trusted, and even if you make that face I know _you know. _The Super Hero was less than a demon, then, for breaking his promise. If anyone made a mistake was him." She pinched his nose, as if scolding a child. "And I will remind you as many times as I need until you stop blaming yourself. I guess that will teach me to get such a stubborn rival."

"I like the word 'headstrong' better."

"Well I like 'dumbass' the best but I don't really want to make you even sadder and pathetic than you are now."

He pretends to be offended, decides he can afford to lose this verbal battle if it means turning things back to normal. Unfortunately, Beryl has one last thing to say, because she doesn't let him turn back to his pillow and makes him look at her again (Or try to, without his glasses).

"The past can't be changed, but, you know? The future can. So why don't we make the best out of it?"

"… That's your closing line? Lame."

The blurry pink in front of him mixes with an odd shade of red: She's blushing, insulted.

"Well excuse _me_—"

"Thank you."

He says it in a small voice, and Beryl nearly falls off the bed.

"W… What did you just say!?"

"I-I said—Th… Than… ugh—! You know exactly what I said! Get out of my bed, my room, my castle, my life! Don't—Stay away!"

It's too late, her arms are already locked around his torso and the bed creaks when they both fall in a mess of sheets, arms, legs, pillows. She secures a spot on his chest, giggling, and he thinks that her laugh is one of the things he will not change about his future.


End file.
